


Tony Stark: Master of Camouflage

by ThePsuedonym



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, POV Multiple, Post-Avengers (2012), Prompt Fill, Sick Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-14 12:50:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7172492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePsuedonym/pseuds/ThePsuedonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill for Anonymous: <em>To the team, Tony looks totally normal; the only thing that's out of the ordinary is that he's actually sitting still for once, not bouncing around baiting one or all of them. Oh, and that he's in the living room at all instead of buried down in his workshop. Just his normal eccentricity, right? So they let him be.</em><br/><em>Until Pepper comes home from work and says 'Tony, what's wrong, you look terrible.' and they all take a closer look and realize he does.</em><br/><em>tl;dr Tony is sick and takes refuge in the living room with the team, who take far too long to realize anything is wrong. But when they do, there are cuddles.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Tony Stark: Master of Camouflage

**Author's Note:**

> Doesn't quite fill the prompt, but I tried.  
> Edited slightly from the [original post](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/16524.html?thread=36061836) on Avengerkink.

Truth be told, very few members of the Avengers could be called early risers, early birds or any other variation thereof. It was more common to see someone that had been struck by insomnia than it was for any of them to have _voluntarily_ thrown themselves out of bed, if for their own reasons.

Bruce, for example, was a light sleeper by habit and not by choice; he could usually be found in the kitchen between the hours of one and three, a cooling pot of water on the stove and a half-forgotten mug of tea resting in his hands.

Both Clint and Natasha preferred sleeping in when they could, but on nights when dreams didn’t come easily, they could usually be found sparring together; one never seemed to be without the other on such occasions.

Tony, more often than not, spent his nights through a working binge, getting by on coffee fumes and DUM-E’s smoothies; after several days (his standing record, according to a disapproving JARVIS, was one hundred and five hours,) he would stumble upstairs to the communal floor – if he left the workshop at all, of course – and keel over onto the nearest horizontal surface for a few hours before starting the cycle all over again.

And as for Thor, everyone else heavily suspected that sleeping was considered an art or a sport on Asgard. On those few nights when sleep escaped him, he consoled himself by watching foreign films with whoever else was up at the time – usually Bruce or the assassins.

Steve, on the other hand, had an established routine. He woke at six, jogged for an hour and explored the city that was so familiar yet was so different and returned to the Tower. He would shower, dress, and help Bruce make breakfast if he was awake; if not then he scrounged through the refrigerator for leftovers or made something simple.

It was usually about that time that the other Avengers came down to start their day – excepting Tony, who generally came down about an hour after the others if at all, and then only if he was between engineering sessions.

When Steve returned to the Tower that morning he was somewhat surprised to hear voices he didn’t recognize echoing down the hall to the elevator. A quick confirmation from JARVIS found that no one had entered the residential floors of the Tower since he had left, nor could he recall any particular electronics having been left on when he had first departed, not that he had been on the lookout, either.

He could ask JARVIS what the source was, but Steve didn’t have the heart to do that. It was a sign of laziness, firstly, and he quite enjoyed doing things himself. Secondly he was admittedly curious and would rather see the cause of it himself; electronics, no matter how sophisticated, could be tricked. Not to mention that the serum prevented most poisons and hallucinogens from working on him and he hadn’t seen anything strange yet.

Following the voices, Steve entered the main floor’s living room and found that the television had been turned on during his absence. Onscreen were two men talking in an empty street. A figure, silhouetted in the light, was slumped in one of the plush armchairs and idly, randomly tapping the side with rapid fingers.

There was nothing to consider; he crept into the room, silent so as not to disturb the inhabitant if friendly or to keep the upper hand if they proved to be an enemy. He only had to move a few steps before the shadows gave way to the light of the television and the figure resolved itself into Tony, who was both distracted and unaware of his teammate’s presence. The captain stopped in his tracks.

After the invasion they had largely settled their differences, or as much as two people like them could have – “I’m sorry for what happened on the Helicarrier—” “We both meant what we said,” – and while they were definitely less prone to fighting like cats and dogs, the arguments were still hardly few and far between. Or any less heated. Not to mention that the engineer hardly interacted with him outside of meals and missions, or that _he_ had made any moves to do otherwise; what would he say? What _could_ he say, without risking a spat so early in the morning?

Better safe than sorry, Steve decided, and walked away.

Tony’s eyes, slightly glassy in the unnatural light, followed him as he left.

 

Second to pass through the communal floor was Bruce. He had been silently congratulating himself on a successful night’s sleep, something which had been slowly but progressively easier to obtain as weeks passed by. Trust, hard as it was to place in another after _that_ , was even harder to put into himself after Harlem.

It was slow work but he was getting there a step at a time. Every second of sleep was a simple delight well-earned and, as sad as it sounded, he hoped that he might return to an eight-hour schedule before the year was over.

Such was his distraction that he didn’t immediately notice his teammate in the living room, instead passing into the kitchen to start breakfast. Bruce didn’t fancy himself a Michelin chef but his cooking was still better than most anyone else’s on the Avengers, especially when half of them could burn water. Somehow. (Tony even had it on film.)

Nor did he think of leaving the kitchen until Steve had wandered in, probably finished with his morning shower. Bruce understood the appeal of a routine and the relaxation it offered; if his early morning workout helped with the stress, the scientist couldn’t begrudge Steve of his chosen ritual. Instead he gestured to the apron hanging from the wall, then to the stove, where he had set a frying pan. Beside it was a carton of eggs.

A simple breakfast would suffice today: eggs, bacon and toast. It was appealing, it was delicious, and it sounded leagues better than last night’s leftovers.

Steve was tying the strings around his waist when he said, “Tony’s watching the television.”

Bruce paused. “Okay?” There was nothing decidedly unusual about that.

“Did… something happen? Last night?”

It was good to be concerned for one’s friends, Bruce thought, but he would have preferred if the soldier asked Tony himself. This was an issue that would only worsen if he avoided it. And he knew all about that, yes sir, for he was a master of running from his problems.

“Have you tried asking?”

He turned slightly, just enough to see Steve flush slightly with embarrassment. The blond made an odd gesture with his hands, aborted it, and tried again. Bruce laughed, “It’s fine. But you two should try to get along. Find some common ground.” Turning back to his own work, he added, “And no, nothing happened. Finished an experiment or two, went to bed early.”

Though he made a note to check on Tony and see with his own eyes that the man was alright. Not that it would be easy; the man held his cards closer than a SHIELD agent and was just about as fond of showing his hand.

 

Firstly, he would like to put out an important disclaimer: it was an accident. There was no malicious intent in his actions.

To put it simply, Clint was still familiarizing himself with the air ducts in Stark Tower; and if he sometimes found himself dropping into a meeting on the fifteenth floor, well, Stark didn’t exactly have a sensible vent system. It wasn’t challenging, either, only extremely redundant.

But that redundancy meant that, instead of dropping into the kitchen as he had intended, to make a spectacular appearance and perhaps steal some food, he accidentally fell into the living room instead. Clint rolled to his feet with a scowl and a few nasty words for any witnesses.

All he saw was Tony in one of the armchairs, watching him blankly. He didn’t _look_ mind-controlled, or like a zombie, but one couldn’t be too certain.

Clint raised a hand and waved. Tony copied him.

Eh, he was probably fine. And Bruce definitely had bacon.

 

Unlike Doctor Banner and her partner-in-somewhat-legalized-crime, both of whom had had a pleasant night, Natasha was unable to sleep. It was not nightmares that kept her up, nor shades of the past. Irrepressible thoughts were not the culprit, either. All she could do was stare at the ceiling and trace the shadows left there by the lights of the city.

JARVIS, during her first night there, had offered to tint the windows so as to limit the phosphorescent light that invaded the room but she had declined. It was not a matter of fear of the shadows, _sciophobia_ , or of the darkness, _nyctophobia_. Seeing the patterns painted above was calming, to her. Like a secret pleasure rarely indulged, all the more appreciated for its rarity.

When she did emerge from her room Natasha was far from tired, despite tracing lines on the plaster all night long. She had endured far worse in her past and remained alert, so the hours had little effect on her. As she passed through the halls she caught sight of her former target and paused in her tracks.

Several months in close proximity with Stark had allowed her the chance to examine him. A particularly interesting specimen of _Lepidoptera_ speared through with a pin and tacked to a cork board. Pretty, intriguing, but overall useless for her needs.

The man was as brash and loud as the projected image the media eagerly lapped up, arrogant and cocky as the Director had expected. He did not surprise her; any human, she believed, would do what is necessary to keep themselves alive. Escaping the Ten Rings was no different, even if his mind and the materials given to him allowed for a more extraordinary exit than most. Piloting the Iron Man was, at first, declaring his claim over his territory. Further usage was merely deepening the claim, driving in the stake.

Slow death was… unfortunate but not unexpected either. If not from palladium, then from alcohol, organ failure. She had doubted the presence of other drugs but they were not off the table, not at that point. His reactions were the same, selfishness and rude behavior used to mask terror and as an escape from reality that swiftly culminated in the party and the loss of one of the previous versions of the armor. Natasha had tried to warn him against it, as well, but he did not listen. The loss on all ends was his own fault.

Iron Man yes, Tony Stark no. The former could be replaced. The latter could not – and that was a weakness.

Yet the man had stepped up and taken responsibility where it was due and assisted in destroying the abominations Hammer and Vanko had released upon the public. His reasons for doing so were somewhat unclear: a sense of responsibility, fear for the fates of the few that were close to him, or a grab for the spotlight that such an act would undoubtedly create?

Though she hated to admit it, Natasha was not entirely certain. Regardless of his motivation the Director had seen something that spoke against her earlier recommendations and extended a hand to the engineer. It was enough for her to reserve judgement and prepare herself to rewrite her assumptions.

Thus she wasn’t sure what to make of the man. She believed she had looked underneath the underneath, only to realize that there was a second mask. Nor had she the chance to peer any further.

So, sitting on the plump chair, watching her watch him, now were his actions – or inaction, seeing as he made no move to do anything – now merely another mask? Or was she seeing the true Tony Stark?

She was unsure, and that unnerved her.

 

Thor had none of the compunctions that his fellow warriors had in regards to the benefactor of their alliance. He was a man of many shades, much like his brother; a man who had learned to hide himself with another self standing in his place. A complexity in the form of a simplicity, much like the riddles Loki had once favored.

Meeting the Man of Iron before the sun had risen well into the sky was a treasured day; meeting him on the other’s own terms was to be cherished, as Lady Jane’s victories in her difficult work in unraveling the complexities of the Bifrost, even if they were not to be celebrated in the same manner.

As the man did not appear troubled, merely thoughtful, Thor thought nothing more of his presence. Hunger may have escaped him as it did to mortals on occasion, and he appeared to be deep within his mind. Experience with Loki had long since taught him that an expression bode ill will upon any disturbances, particularly when the examined thought was of importance.

He was not rude, however, and knew that a cold meal was better than nothing at all; so he brought a plate made to bear an acceptable amount of fare, by a mortal’s standards, to Anthony, as well as one of those devices he had seen the benefactor using to explain the nuances of an experiment or another to the one who hid great anger within him.

Thoughts were easier to lose when they only existed in the mind, after all.

 

Once a week or so, more often if there was scheduling for an event, Pepper would take the elevator to the residential floors of the Tower to coerce Tony to sign off on the papers that required his signature; though he had named her CEO of Stark Industries, he was still the majority shareholder and the head of the Research and Development department, meaning that he still couldn’t escape that responsibility known as responsibility.

She wanted to get a head start on her quarry and left early; ideally, she would find him eating breakfast and could corner him then. If not, she could enlist Natasha’s or Bruce’s help and do the same in his workshop.

Straightening the files she had with her, Pepper stepped off the elevator and strode down the hall. Then stopped once she caught sight of the person she was searching for sitting all by his lonesome.

“Tony,” she said, fond and resigned and exasperated, “why aren’t you in bed?”

Years of exposure to Stark insanity had trained her to recognize all of Tony’s different states. Right now, he was clearly coming down with something and, if he had his way, would be dead in a week. Honestly, she wondered sometimes how he had survived as long as he had.

“Friend Stark is sick?”

Pepper half-turned to see Thor, genuine concern on his face. She was sure the others were there as well, listening in. “Yes, but he’ll get better with some rest. Right, Tony?”

He smiled at her.

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case it isn't clear, Thor gave Tony a tablet.


End file.
